


99 Problems But A Twitch Ain't One

by enthroned



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 14:05:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enthroned/pseuds/enthroned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Enjolras just wants a cup of coffee.  And Grantaire apparently hoards croissants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	99 Problems But A Twitch Ain't One

**Author's Note:**

> This seemed like a good idea at the time, and now I've become part of the coffeeshop au cliche. I can't say that I'm sorry. This is very much unbeta'd, so I apologize for any and all mistakes.
> 
> Title yanked from Anuhea's "Barista By Day."

Upon moving halfway across the country, Enjolras’ first order of business is to find a cup of coffee that is both ethically farmed and caffeinated to the point where it might be illegal. Well, the coffee technically takes second place to setting up his mattress and taking a three-hour nap to make up for the new time difference, but it is a very close second. It takes an extensive Google search, but he finds four places that might actually fit his needs. 

The first is so bitter it very nearly makes his hair stand on end. He still attempts to smile around a mouthful of what he thinks might actually be tar, and leaves a generous enough tip before he’s off to find number two. Two would suit him just fine, if Enjolras could look past the fact that the barista has teeth that look like they’ve been filed into fangs and eyes that never stop twitching. He just wants coffee, not a waking nightmare. Maybe he’ll have better luck with the third café.

On his way to number three, he gets himself very lost in the city’s subway system. Of course he does. Enjolras gives up somewhere along the red line and climbs back to street-level to find that it’s started to rain. Of course it has. He passes four Starbucks and is soaked to the bone before he gives up on his quest and decides that he can at least take refuge in the next coffeehouse he passes. It’s been two hours since his near-death encounter at café number two, and Enjolras can hardly be expected to integrate himself in the city’s activist community and shed light on the government’s most recent corruption without caffeine in his system.

Of course, the next café on his aimless journey is another Starbucks – if that can even be called a café without some hint of sarcasm – and Enjolras has principles, dammit. He rolls his eyes and walks another three blocks, raindrops already dripping off of his hair and nose like tiny waterfalls. His travels end when he spies a young woman with black-rimmed glasses and a pin proclaiming her love of moustaches struggling to open an umbrella while juggling two travel mugs. Sustainability. Perfect. He offers his assistance, slides the umbrella open, and hears her shout a slightly belated word of thanks as he heads inside.

The bell above the door jingles and the barista, his back turned toward the door, responds with, “Welcome to Musain. Our pastry of the day was a croissant, but you’re about five hours late if you want one.” 

Enjolras is torn between gaping and laughing, but settles on simply saying, “I’m not here for the croissants.” The barista’s head snaps around at the sound of his voice, moving in a flurry of dark curls and slender limbs. The corner of Enjolras’ mouth twitches in greeting and he adds, “But I am curious about your coffee. Is it – ”

“Organic? Relatively free from pesticides? Produced without the help of child labor?” By the third question, the man has his elbows propped up on the counter, chin resting in one of his palms. He’s looking up at Enjolras through his thick, black eyelashes, and Enjolras can’t get a read on his expression. “Please don’t ask me if it’s locally grown because, in case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of Washington. You can find a senator on every street corner, but you won’t find any farms. If you want it that fresh, you’re going to have to get on a plane.”

This time, laughter seems like the more appropriate response, but Enjolras doesn't bother with it. “The first three questions are fine, actually,” he says, carefully plucking up a ceramic travel cup by the register and setting it down just in front of the barista’s arms. “If the answer is yes, then I’ll take that, preferably filled with the strongest brew you have.”

Instead of a response, he’s given a grin and a few long bats of the man’s eyelashes before he’s up and grabbing for the mug. Enjolras can feel his brow creasing in mild confusion, but, before he can say anything, the barista flicks a glance at him over his shoulder and asks, “Do you like pumpkin?”

“What?” It’s a fair enough response, Enjolras thinks, considering. The man’s curls don’t seem to agree, as they tremble around his head while it pivots right and then left.

“Pumpkin,” the barista repeats, though, when he sees that the word isn’t explanation enough, he continues, “It’s almost autumn and we just got in a shipment of our seasonal flavors. I could brew a batch, if you like it. Pumpkin, I mean.”

Enjolras shakes his head and answers, “That’s not necessary, but thank you.” He gets a shrug in response and is left in near silence as the man turns back to the machines behind the counter. 

He isn’t sure how long it usually takes to fix up a cup of coffee, but Enjolras is relatively certain that the right amount of time isn’t more than five minutes. He’s been waiting for seven. His fingers start to tap out the quiet rhythm of the song that’s being pumped through the small café via an iPod just behind the counter. The barista actually has a name, he learns, if the sign posted on the wall can be trusted. It simply proclaims ‘ _your barista today is R_.’ While he waits, Enjolras wonders if perhaps he has siblings A through Q. It seems doubtful.

Without further contemplation on the man’s name, Enjolras gives up on waiting by the counter, too tempted by the large leather chairs positioned rather chaotically around the petite space. He chooses one closest to the window, leans his head back against the slightly cracked leather, and watches the rain come down in enormous drops, splattering against the concrete in loud slaps. He isn’t sure how much longer he has to wait, but it doesn’t really matter. There aren’t any places for him to go or people for him to see yet, anyway. Emphasis on the yet.

“Here you go, Adonis,” R says as he appears out of nowhere, standing in front of the chair that Enjolras has claimed as his own, holding out the ceramic mug with one hand and a croissant, wrapped in a napkin, in the other. Enjolras quirks an eyebrow at the name and R nods in agreement, amending, “You’re right. You’re more of an Apollo. So, this is on the house, Apollo.” 

Enjolras stays quiet long enough to take both of the offered items before he asks, “Weren’t you out of croissants when I got here?” That shouldn’t be his initial response, not when he’s being compared to Greek gods, but it is.

It earns a smile from R, who simply shrugs and says, “Yeah.” Then, he gestures toward the cup and continues, “Tell me what you think.”

Enjolras is almost positive that the coffee is too hot to drink without scalding himself, but he’s getting it for free and so he obliges. He’s right, it’s searing hot but it’s also sinfully delicious. That isn’t his immediate response though, because, “It’s pumpkin,” flies out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

R’s grin gives way to a quiet snort. “And he’s smart, too,” comes his response and Enjolras doesn’t even have a moment to ask what that means before he’s back behind the counter, fiddling with the iPod.

Later, as he’s sucking down the very last drops of the coffee and brushing crumbs off of the front of his sweater, Enjolras realizes that his new cup has already been tampered with. Along the side, a rose blooms in delicate, red lines. He traces the petals with his thumb, careful of the ink just in case it decides to smudge.

The bell announces his imminent departure, and he catches R’s gaze just before he ducks back out into the still steady rain. Holding up the mug, he says, “This is vandalism, you know.”

From behind the counter, R laughs and pushes the curls out of his eyes. His response comes a moment later, after he’s disentangled his knuckles from his hair. “It’s technically coming out of my paycheck, and you can’t actually vandalize your own belongings. Look it up,” and there’s a slight challenge in his voice, like he knows that Enjolras will go and do just that.

“I will,” he replies, matching the tone of R’s voice without truly trying. The door eases shut behind him then, doesn’t slam like Enjolras almost expects it to. Instead, it seems unsure as to whether he’s really leaving now. He is, he’s going, and if he comes back it will only be because he has a point to prove about vandalism. And because he doesn’t think he can go on in life without that pumpkin coffee now.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://pjransones.tumblr.com), so feel free to stop on by. And maybe watch me cry over George Blagden's face.


End file.
